The kingpin of Mayfair is waiting for us as we walk out of the elevator from the underground carpark beneath his home in the centre of London.
“Artem.” Dimitri greets him with a handshake and a slap on the back. The London Bratvas stick together, it seems.
His pregnant wife—Lina, a girl about my age with black hair—gives me a friendly smile. “They’re waiting for you in the ballroom.” She says that last word with ironic emphasis.
I nod and hide my nerves. I’m wearing an elegant green dress that sets off my blonde hair that’s piled on my head perfectly, but I’m still a little anxious about seeing Howard again. Dimitri looks darkly imposing and gorgeous in a black suit. The silk lining matches my dress.
He had both made weeks ago. That should definitely freak me out, but it doesn’t. There’s a slot he’s created for me in the centre of his life, and as it turns out, I’m perfect for it. For the first time, I fit. I’m just right for this role: his wife.
On the way back to London, Dimitri gave me a summary of the members of the London Mafia Syndicate and how to recognise each member. Most of that has gone pfftt from my head by the time Artem leads us into an enormous gold-and-teal accented room. There is a semi-circle of men in perfectly-tailored suits and as they part, I see what their substantial shoulder’s obscured.
Thick clear plastic sheeting covers the floor, and in the middle a man is taped to a metal chair.
Howard. His eyes are wild and fearful, his cheek is swelling with a red bruise, and there’s silver tape over his mouth. His T-shirt is crispy with dried blood.
Sympathy tugs at me, until I remember his knife. The recollection flashes through me. This man intended to hurt me.
“Rotherhithe.” The kingpin of Westminster peels off from the group and walks over to us. They shake hands cordially. They’re similar ages, but as Dimitri said, Westminster has a posh accent and an air of thinking he’s in charge of London. I’m sure every man in this room would happily abuse him of that notion, but they all seem to respect him enough to permit him to be the figurehead.
“And you must be Jenna.” Westminster turns to me and Dimitri’s grip on my waist tightens possessively. “I’m sorry that this happened to you. There are various claims on revenge, but yours is the strongest.” Westminster’s gaze flicks to Dimitri, then back to me, waiting.
“He wants to know if you want Howard dead, zayka,” Dimitri rumbles into my ear.
“Oh! I…” I am woefully unprepared for this.
“Take all the time you need.” Dimitri is warm and reassuring.
I glance sidelong at where Howard is being held. It’s obvious there has already been some violence, and the plastic sheet isn’t to protect the floor from shoes. They expect blood.
Can I really suggest something like that? I wouldn’t even know the words. And I don’t think I want to live with that.
“I’ll let someone else decide,” I say after a second. “You said others have a claim?”
Dimitri moves before I’ve finished speaking. My brain doesn’t fully comprehend what it means as he pulls a gun from the holster at his side and casually fires at Howard until my ears are ringing from the noise and Dimitri is rubbing my shoulder and murmuring something soothing as I tremble.
Howard’s scream is muffled by the tape over his mouth, but audible.
Dimitri shot Howard.
The hole in Howard’s crotch is seeping blood, and there’s a spray of vivid red on the plastic sheet. He shakes in the bonds, screeching, clearly still alive.
I’m shocked.
And yet… I’m not. Dimitri told me this was who he was. He waited for me to make a decision for myself and the second I ceded it, he took the revenge he wanted.
“You said we’d all get a chance,” grumbles one of the gathered kingpins.
“Why did you shoot him in the pelvis?” someone else asks.
“Supposed to be the most painful place to be shot,” my fiancé replies conversationally.
“Good.” Westminster nods. “Does anyone want to advocate for letting him live?”
There’s a snort from another of the other kingpins, and Howard’s muffled crying.
“I’ll shoot anyone who wants to suggest keeping rapists alive,” says Lambeth cheerfully.
“Everyone agrees he should die. The only question is how, and who should do it.”
“Me,” says Dimitri, and I don’t know why I’m taken aback at the savageness in his tone.
“He lived in my territory,” comes a voice, immediately followed by, “He bought the knife in mine,” and “The hotel and restaurant were in Canary Wharf.”
“I honestly don’t care who kills him, but can we do this quickly? I want to get back to my wife in time for lunch,” another man grumbles, glancing at his watch.
“Filling the cream donut with your new bride, Blackstone?” Laurent says. “Is it true she’s your daughter’s best friend?”
“It’s a marriage in name only,” Blackstone replies tightly, looking away, more or less confirming that yes, he has married his daughter’s best friend and there’s cream involved.
Somehow that makes me feel better. We’re not the only screwed-up, big-age-gap couple here. I glance up at Dimitri and his icy eyes are soft. They’re teddy-bear blue when he looks at me that way and I feel like I’m the centre of his universe, no one else here at all.
“Which is why you have to go and bang her,” Laurent continues with amusement.
Blackstone goes red at the ears. “It’s—”
“Can we all take turns?” Lambeth suggests.
“Death isn’t like that,” points out Artem dryly.
“Yes, I had gathered,” Lambeth drawls. “But fair’s fair. We all want to kill the piece of shit, and you’ve already maimed him, Rotherhithe. Whose claim is the biggest?”
“You could just compare dick sizes,” mutters Jeanette Laurent to her husband and they laugh.
Westminster heaves an irritated sigh.
“Well, in that case—” Lambeth starts.
“If you’re going to be children about this,” Artem interrupts, “we’ll settle it in the Maths Club way.”
“Not this again,” Westminster says between clenched teeth.
“What is the London Maths Club?” I ask quietly, but there’s a lull in the talking and everyone turns to look at me. Dimitri rumbles a growl and tucks me closer to him.
“That idiot didn’t want to tell his wife that he was a mafia boss,” Lambeth says, gesturing towards the kingpin of Canary Wharf.
The man shrugs. “As if you wouldn’t do anything and everything to keep your wife.”
“So he told her this was a maths club,” Lambeth says. “The idea sort of… Stuck.”
“Back to the main issue, gentlemen,” Westminster interrupts. “The sum is 98 times 63.”
“6174,” says a man at the edge of the group, holding his phone in his hand.
“That’s cheating,” Westminster states matter-of-factly.
“We’re mafia bosses, not twelve-year-old maths geeks. We cheat.”
“No,” Westminster replies with exaggerated patience. “In the London Maths, I mean Mafia Syndicate, we don’t—”
“Fuck’s sake.” A man who has been silent until now strides forwards, grabs Howard’s head to yank it back, and with a practised motion slides a knife over his throat before anyone can react. Blood arcs through the air then spatters onto the plastic sheet.
I stare in disbelief.
The man lets Howard go, and he slumps.
There’s a moment of shocked silence.
“Fuck, Angel! You’ve spoiled all our fun,” Lambeth protests.
“Da.” The kingpin of Angel sneers then stalks away, head down.
“What’s the matter with him?” the Canary Wharf boss asks, scowling. “Very unsporting, I’d say.”
Westminster sighs and massages his forehead as he looks askance at Dimitri. “Do any of you Bratva idiots have manners?”
“Apparently not,” Dimitri answers dryly.
There’s a gurgle from Howard and the blood continues to spatter with a grim dripping noise that echoes in the large room. Then he’s still. Gone. Glassy eyed and dead.
“You okay?” Dimitri asks, low and only for my ears as the other men split off into shaking their heads and walking away, conversation, or commentary on the man before us.
I drag my gaze from the blood—so much blood, I had no idea a person had that much inside them—and focus on Dimitri. And suddenly, my world realigns.
There’s nothing but the circle of his protective embrace.
“Yes. Let’s go home and forget… What’s his name?”
Dimitri’s smile is slow. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. Can’t be anyone important. None of your firsts.” He squeezes my waist. “None of your lasts, either. I’m all of those.”
I grin. “My first stalker and my last.”
“First date,” he adds.
“My first kiss.” It seems a lifetime ago that I was concerned Howard might have taken my first kiss. And now he’s gone. There’s only Dimitri and me.
He turns us, and we begin to walk away. “First to chase you.”
“First love.”
“Mm.” His is a satisfied rumble. “First and only to get you bred.”
“We need to work more on that though.” I grin, leaving behind the man who accidentally forced us together. I’m tingling with the possibilities of the future. With Dimitri. My gorgeous, savage, dangerous mafia boss. Mine. “To be sure.”
